


Something

by Madtom_Publius



Series: Dance [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, bad communication in a sexual situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What began during the dancing instruction continues to develop tacitly between John and Alexander until it comes to a head. Only after that do they think that maybe some serious conversation might be in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something

**Author's Note:**

> The boys do not do a good job at all of making things clear to each other and making sure that both parties are on the same page before commencing with the sex. This is bad. Do not try this at home. It will end badly. The lack of communication in this situation is a direct result of them not having the language to talk about and understand what's developing between them, what they're feeling, and what they want from each other. That was a huge problem for L/G/B/P/Q folks back in the day, and I don't want anybody condemning this as a black and white situation. If you want to discuss any of that, come to my ask box on tumblr.hell.
> 
> Originally authored by Madtomedger
> 
> Originally posted: http://madtomedgar.tumblr.com/post/136857836977/alright-well-totally-not-linon-asked-for-a-sequal

Of course, things couldn’t simply go back to normal after the dancing lesson. Having made its presence felt then, the something refused now to retreat back to the shuttered recesses from which it had arisen. Whenever Laurens and Hamilton were together, it was there between them, insistent and inexplicable, and alienating. They couldn’t discuss it. They didn’t know how, and even if they did, each convinced himself for a time, at least, that it plague only him.

For Alexander’s part, he marveled both at how it could have taken him so long to notice these details, and how he was noticing them at all. His friend’s appearance had been, up til now, nothing more or less than a thing to know him by. He wanted to kick himself for having been so blind. He wanted to kick himself now for seeing. John’s curls were no longer an unimportant side-note, but a distraction. He could imagaine how they would feel against his fingers if he were to release them from the queue and lose his hands in them, how lost his hands could get, how lovely that would feel, how lovely they would be to pull, letting the pressure tip John’s head back ever so slightly… And then there were his freckles. Either their aggregate was something else he’d missed, or they had proliferated since Laurens had first joined their camp. Perhaps it was some combination of both. Either way, they made an intriguing constellation across his face, inviting speculation into their other possible locations. Did they continue their course down his back, and how far? Could they be found on his legs? Each mark coquettishly invited a kiss as well, which only made such speculation more illicit. His ears were, frankly, cute, sticking almost straight out from the sides of his head, the sort Alexander could hardly notice without smiling. And now questions welled up behind that smile. How sensitive were they? What sort of sound would John make if they were teased? Would he squirm? Laurens’ frame had always tended towards gangly, and for the first time it occurred to Hamilton how excellent that would make his limbs for twining and tangling.

Laurens had, of course, known about his friend’s delightful singing voice, and only now had it occurred to him to imagine what other sort of music it could produce under the right circumstances. It would be more accurate to say he couldn’t, no matter how he wanted to, stop imagining such a thing. He couldn’t seem to focus his attention anywhere other than Alexander’s mouth whenever he was singing or speaking. He especially liked the tight “o” it would so often form itself into… but there were other shapes he couldn’t stop himself from picturing it taking. Of course John had never kissed (really kissed that is) someone with a beard before, but he’d felt Alexander’s brush against his neck or his cheek when they’d hugged and could imagine what it, combined with his lips, would feel like if they did. And he moved so quickly, so smoothly, becoming so elegantly animated whenever something grabbed his interest… what would that look like, feel like, if John grabbed more than his interest? John found he was having to stop himself from little brushes of contact that would certainly give him away (give what away? What was this?) more and more. He wanted to tuck the stray strands of black hair back behind Alexander’s ear and let his fingers continue to stroke down his face, wanted to press their legs together when they sat at the aides’ table… anything that would let him feel that exquisitely pleasant and terrifying warmth that he’d discovered in his friend’s touch during his ill-thought-out lesson.

They never resumed the lesson. Now, in a way, everything became a dance. It was an apt descriptor for the complex and tentative system of physical cues they exchanged to communicate the something. One would scoot infinitesimally closer at the work table, and the other would not move to keep distance, nor would he close it. After bit the gesture would be repeated. One would experiment with standing closer when speaking, or letting his arm fall below the shoulders of the other when they were cavorting. When looking over John’s plans for his regiment, Alexander would stand so they were nearly touching, letting his arm cross John’s body to point out salient parts. All John had to do was lean back, let the crackling charge between their bodies meet…

Of course the dance was most complex and most dangerous in their tent. Somehow, each night, the distance between their bedrolls shrank. Eventually there was no space at all. Alexander, who had always been so free with his opinions and so cautious with his heart, began more frequently shifting their nighttime conversations from the high-minded and expansive intellectual topics which they had enjoyed for so long to the infinitely precious and varied microcosm of his own heart, and, while John was fully aware of the import of such an intimacy, he didn’t know how to say what exactly it was he knew it meant.

Once their beds could get no closer, it wasn’t long before they went from sleeping each on his own side of their new double-mattress to curled around each other (for the cold, of course). And then there were the less wholesome steps. Laurens, having rarely had to share such close quarters before joining the army, had been too bashful at first to relieve the tension that would build between his legs in the presence of anyone else, even if he was satisfied they were asleep. But one can get used to anything. One can even get used to relieving that tension in the same tent as the man who caused it, who one can hear is very much awake and going about the same business. On nights when he couldn’t distract himself, Alexander’s body pressed close behind his was almost too much for his skin, even through the cloth. The challenge, on those nights, was not to shudder, not to let his breathing give him away, to preserve the illusion for the little time it took him to find release, even though there was no way Alexander could have been ignorant of his actions in such a position. The challenge was to preserve the fiction, prolong the dance, at least until he could find the words.

Of course it was Alexander who grew impatient with dancing first. Almost as soon as John had started his little dance of frustration, Alexander let one of his hands slide slowly down to rest on John’s exposed hip. They almost could have pretended it had been done in sleep. But then John felt lips press softly to the skin behind his ear, and a too-loud sigh escaped him at the unexpected pleasure of so light a touch. The hand on his hip crept slowly along his skin, pulling an elongated gasp from him, stopping just short of where his own hand was so assiduously working. Alexander pressed another light kiss just below the first, and John felt his mind recede entirely. With his little finger he coaxed Alexander’s hand forward, letting the something overtake them both as Alexander’s hand overtook his. John couldn’t quell all of the little high sounds pushing their way out of his throat now. He had imagined, but imaginings had in no way prepared him for just how simply and dangerously _good_ his friend’s hand would feel around him. A moment stretched interminably between them as they let each other get used to the way each of them felt. And then Alexander began to stroke, and John was squirming and shuddering and stuttering in his grip. John could hear Alexander moaning softly against his neck between kisses, and he let the sounds (so lovely) pull him further back against the body behind him, feeling the delight his friend was taking in this action. Alexander drew his pleasure out, letting the slow gentle motions build gradually until John lost himself entirely over the edge of bliss.

Almost immediately Laurens’ gasps of pleasure devolved into sobs and he curled tightly in on himself, flinching away from his friend’s touch. Alexander took the cue and moved to sit on the edge of their combined bed, covering his mouth as a dawning horror sunk into him. He thought he’d read the signs so carefully, thought he’d done nothing more than offer a clear invitation, and then give what was requested. God, he’d been so stupid, he’d been so _wrong,_ he should have said something, should have asked… he’d only wanted to make John happy, he’d thought that was what he wanted, and instead… instead he’d… “I’m… so… sorry…” he managed to choke out through the full implications of his actions.

John brought his hand up to wipe his eyes only to shake it manically when he saw the evidence of what had transpired spattered over it. “ _Shit!”_ he hissed, his rapid forced breaths shaking his small frame. Grabbing a handkerchief to try to at least lessen the trauma he felt he’d just caused in some small way, Alexander dropped it where Laurens could see it. He wasn’t worthy of even the smallest contact anymore. Frantically rubbing the fabric against his fingers as if he were trying to sand off his skin, John continued, “ _Alexander_ , _what the hell did we just do?”_

Something about the question and the pleading tone with which John said his name made Hamilton hope that John’s reasons for reacting so extremely may have been due to other reasons than he’d initially thought. He should have asked before, and he hadn’t, and he couldn’t go back and fix it, couldn’t go back and fix _them_. The best he could do was ask now. “Did you not want…?”

“I did, but…” For the first time since they’d made their goodnights, John turned his gaze on Alexander, and what he saw in his eyes was not hurt or betrayal but a confusion so deep it had become terror.

Alexander felt his whole body relax. He had not misread the signs, had not done the unthinkable to his friend whom he dearly loved, merely the unspeakable. Wordlessly, he held his arm out, offering an embrace if one was wanted, his dark eyes full of questions. John accepted, folding his still trembling body against Alexander’s. Still, Alexander was wretched. Something he’d done had caused this, it was all his fault, and he didn’t understand. “John, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Laurens’ breathing was calming, but his voice was ragged and halting when he spoke. “I don’t know what we are, I don’t… I don’t know what this is, and you… you always have the words for everything, even too many words, and _even you don’t know what to call this_ and I don’t… understand what’s happened to us or what we’ve become or what we’ve done or any of it and if even you don’t know then… then…” Hamilton shushed him as he was showing every sign of working himself back up to his previous frantic state and petted his head while he collected himself. “And if I just knew what this was and knew what to call it… but I don’t.” He trailed off again, letting Alexander’s hand continue toying in his hair.

The problem of what to call the something had not escaped Hamilton. He’d pondered it on and off over the weeks they had been drawing closer to the overwhelming question. There were words, in the most technical sense, for their action, their desires, people like them, all of which he’d rejected out of hand. What they described was boorish, disgusting, vile, a superabundance of selfish lust. They had no relevance to the connection that had grown between them. Of course it had bothered him that he could find no words for them. He lived in words, through words. Words defined his entire existence. He’d been scanning the classical literature on which so much of their particular models of friendship had been based in spare moments over the last few days hoping to find something, had been mulling over the options he had come across that made slant sense. He hadn’t meant to tell Laurens until he’d lighted on one he liked and molded it to fit perfectly. But right now he suspected any fit would do. “The Spartan military, it seems, had a tradition of encouraging these sorts of connections between soldiers. The idea was that a man would fight all the more honorably in the eyes of his lover and brother officer. I can show you the passage tomorrow?”

While Alexander was still hoping his attempt at offering the comforting context had been enough, John lunged up to kiss him with the sort of forceful energy he exhibited during the day, tinged with a desperation that Alexander had only seen hints of before. He could feel John forgetting to breathe, feel the lack of air building the tension back up inside him, and had to pull him back. There would be other, better opportunities to experience all his dear’s lovely mouth had to offer. But the too quick breath forcing itself rapidly out of John now was laughter, and his eyes shone with relief and gratitude and affection. “ _Thank you.”_ He forced out through frenetic giggles. Alexander kissed his forehead and pulled him back down on their pallets, tangling their limbs pleasantly together. The tips of Laurens ears darkened but he didn’t look away, didn’t pull away. “Do… do you want me to…?”

“Not tonight,” Alexander responded, yawning. They adjusted against each other and exchanged a few shy kisses and settled in to sleep. “I love you,” Alexander mumbled sleepily.

“Love you too,” was the equally drowsy reply.


End file.
